


Compromises

by Xerxia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 13:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7894597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine’s day in the Everdeen/Mellark house is just another day...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromises

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the Tumblr D12Drabbles prompt: holidays. Rated E for explicit sexual content and language.

“Damn, you’re a lucky man, Peet,” Thresh calls after me as I grab my jacket from the rack. “Enjoy your no pressure evening, man!” I grunt out a noncommittal noise and shove the back door open, trudging through the snow that still hasn’t been shovelled out of our parking lot.

Today is Valentine’s day. It’s the busiest single day at the bakery, though for me the really busy time is the few days leading up to it. Now, at four in the afternoon, my part is done. The selling and delivering of the treats I’ve created falls to my employees and I can go home to celebrate the day.

Except that in my home, Valentine’s day is no different than any other day.

I’m not single, far from it. I live with the love of my life. My Katniss. We’ve been together since high school. She was my first everything. And she’s beyond fantastic. She’s smart and funny and passionate; she keeps me on my toes. I love her more and more every day.

But while I’m a complete romantic, Katniss… well, Katniss just is not. The first time I brought her flowers, when we were only 17, she complained that killing plants for just a few days of enjoyment was senseless. Our very first date was a candlelit dinner in a cozy, dim restaurant, and while she enjoyed the food, she bemoaned the waste of money and the necessity to dress up. She’s not cruel; she just genuinely doesn’t see the point of romance. When she wants something she asks or she gets it for herself, no hinting, no trying to guess what she’s thinking. Katniss doesn’t do subtle.

She’s even more scornful of Valentine’s day. “It’s a Hallmark holiday, Peeta,” she’s told me over and over. “Just a way for companies to make money in the middle of the winter.” I pressed her once, trying to sell her on the story of Saint Valentine. She’d wrinkled her pert little nose and pointed out that he was the patron saint of plagues.

Point taken.

My male friends and all of the guys I work with tell me repeatedly how lucky I am. They spend weeks planning perfect dates, looking for perfect gifts, bitching all the while about it.

But they don’t understand. I WANT to do those things.

It’s not that we don’t ever do things together, things that might edge along the definition of romantic, however inadvertently. I bring her cheese buns from the bakery all of the time. We go out: pub nights, concerts, movies. We take amazing vacations together. Our sex life is incredible.

But damn do I want to bring her flowers or chocolates and have her blush and kiss me senseless. I want to get dressed up, show her off someplace fancy, watch her silver eyes shine by candlelight. I want to dance on the beach at sunset.

I want to kneel in front of her with the ring that’s been hidden in my drawer for more than two years.

But Katniss doesn’t want those things.

So Valentine’s day in the Everdeen/Mellark house is just another day. And since today is Friday, it’s homemade pizza day.

My house is in darkness when I get home, but that’s not unusual. I’m at the bakery I own before dawn most days and home by mid-afternoon. Katniss, on the other hand, is an engineer with the city; she’s never home before six.

Distracted thinking about whether to make a tomato sauce or use the pesto I froze last fall, I don’t notice it at first. My house isn’t actually dark.

There are candles flickering on the little table in my front hall.

I shuck my boots, tossing my jacket in the closet without even looking, and move farther into the house. Here, too, candles shimmer: on the coffee table, on the mantel, even on the bookcase. A fire crackles in our rarely-used fireplace. “Katniss?” I call out into the silence. She must be home; candles don’t spontaneously light themselves. Or buy themselves, come to think of it. I didn’t think we had anything other than emergency candles.

And there are flowers everywhere. Not cut flowers, but pots of sunny daffodils and fragrant hydrangea. It’s really beautiful. I pick up one of the pots and bury my nose in the blueish blooms, sweet and heady, as I try to figure out what could possibly be going on. Maybe Prim snuck in, she’s always been bewildered by her big sister’s refusal to participate in the sentimental parts of dating and courtship. But she’d have warned me first, I’m sure of that. And she wouldn’t just leave all of these candles lit, ready to burn down my house.

The hydrangea balanced on my hip, I thumb through my phone, intent on texting Prim, maybe our friend Finnick too. He might know what’s going on. But the sound of a clearing throat instead grabs my attention. And I drop the plant.

Katniss, my best friend, my partner, the woman I’ve loved since I was old enough to know what that meant, is standing in the entrance to the living room. And she’s wearing a dress. Or most of a dress anyway; it’s red, and it plunges low in the front, highlighting her perfect breasts. The hem barely reaches the tops of her thighs; her long, lean legs displayed for my unblinking eyes.

I haven’t seen Katniss in a dress since our senior prom. She swore to me that night that it would be the last time I ever did.

As I continue shamelessly raking my eyes down her form I realize that she’s wearing high heels too. I didn’t even know Katniss owned high heels, and certainly not sexy, strappy ones like this.

There’s a war in my brain, half trying to figure out what’s going on, half leering at the wet dream come true standing in front of me. The twitching in my pants suggests the leering part is winning out.

But as I continue to gape wordlessly, her kohl-lined eyes reflect uncertainty, vulnerability. She looks so nervous. It nearly breaks me. “What’s going on, Katniss?” I breathe.

“Uhm,” she starts, fiddling with the hem of her dress again. My hands ache to still hers. “Well, it’s Valentine’s day,” she says. I step over the pot, which hasn’t broken but has made quite the mess of our area rug, and rush to pull her into my arms. She’s trembling. I bury my face in her hair, she’s wearing it loose, the way I love it, and it’s faintly perfumed. “So,” she continues, pushing back to look me in the eyes, taller than usual in those sexy shoes. “I thought we could have a date. A romantic evening or whatever.” She’s scowling faintly, and I can’t help but laugh.

She huffs, stepping back and crossing her arms. “I knew this was a stupid idea.”

“No,” I say quickly, reaching for her again. “No this is… you’re incredible. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” She relaxes, wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her head on my chest.

“Okay,” she whispers, and for a few minutes I just hold her in pleased, if bewildered, silence. Finally she pulls back, smirking. “Enough distracting me, Mellark.” And she takes me by the hand, leading me into the formal dining room.

We never use this space, it’s just the two of us, so we usually eat in the kitchen. But tonight she’s transformed it. Like the living room, it’s alight with candles, and there are more flowers. The table itself is set with my grandmother’s china, which my dad gave to us when we bought the house. It’s never been out of the cabinet before today.

“What’s all this?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes.

“I told you, we’re having a romantic evening. Now sit down.” I have to bite my lip hard to keep from snickering, but she doesn’t notice, turning instead for the kitchen. I can hear the delicate click-click-click of those outrageously hot heels on the tile floor of our kitchen as she moves around, the rhythmic tapping a counterpoint to the hammering of my heart. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m beyond excited to find out. Katniss has never done anything like this before.

It isn’t very long before she returns with a pair of flutes and a bottle of champagne, which she hands to me to open. “Are you cooking dinner?” I ask as the cork eases out of the bottle with a sigh. She snorts.

“I love you too much to subject you to my cooking, Peeta.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. It’s true Katniss isn’t much of a cook. She can make boxed noodles, but not much else. I do the majority of the meal preparation in our house. “I did make the salad though,” she winks.

I chuckle in response and pour two glasses of the golden fluid, smiling at the bubbles that stream to the surface. I can’t remember the last time we had champagne. Delly’s wedding reception maybe? That was more than two years ago now.

She reaches for a glass, but I slide it down the table, forcing her to come closer. I grab her hand, and with a little tug she’s in my lap. “Hi,” she whispers, her cheeks growing pink as my fingers dance across her bare thighs.

“You’re so pretty,” I sigh. She leans in and kisses me so softly it’s like a dream. I almost ask her if she’s real.

“You’re distracting me again,” she murmurs, stroking my cheek as she does. I could not care less; holding her here in the candlelight while she wears that smoking hot dress, it’s already the best Valentine’s day ever. She leans over to pick up our two glasses, handing one to me with a soft smile.

The wine that bubbles up my nose is nowhere near as intoxicating as the silver-eyed woman before me. A decade of dating, and she’s still an enigma. She sips her champagne, never breaking eye contact. I’m under her spell.

“Are you hungry, Peeta?” she whispers, her bottom lip glistening with champagne. I suckle it away, eyes open the whole time, locked on hers. Her breathing speeds up as I do.

“Peeta,” she sighs. Fuck supper. I take her glass away quickly enough to startle her, then wrap her in my arms. Her lips are soft and pliant, yielding to mine immediately. She’s so responsive. Katniss might struggle with words but her actions are always clear. She’s always shown me that she wants me, that she loves me. But she pulls back too soon, climbing off my lap. “Let me get our food,” she says, flushed and flustered, but still determined. I can see that it’s important to her, so I ignore my already raging erection and smile.

The smile widens at the sight of dandelion greens, goat cheese and strawberries, topped with toasted pecans. My favourite. We sit side-by-side, feeding each other and chatting. Flickering candlelight caresses her cheekbones, kisses her lips. When she stands to clear our dishes I try to help, but she shoves me back into my chair. “Wait right here,” she entreats, with an exasperated little laugh. So I do.

I smell it almost right away, but my brain refuses to believe it. The mischievous smile she flashes as she returns with a bowl convinces me though.

Lamb stew.

Not just any lamb stew. The lamb stew we ordered on our very first date, at Sae’s, all those years ago. A coy smile plays on her lips. “You remember?”

“Yes,” I breathe, my throat a little tight. “You… you went to Sae’s?” She nods. “Just for me?” It’s barely a whisper. It’s hands down the sweetest thing she’s ever done. Katniss doesn’t buy into nostalgia much, but the flowers, the candles and the lamb stew, it’s like she’s recreating our first date.

“For us,” she says. A flush crawls up her cheeks. “Our first date,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “It was so romantic, and I didn’t really appreciate it at the time.”

“Katniss,” I choke. “I never… You didn't…” For the first time in my life I’m rendered completely speechless. But she understands.

“I know, Love,” she says, setting the stew on the table and bending to kiss me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sneak a peek down her dress. What can I say, her tits are magnificent, and I’m only human. “I know you’ve never once complained,” she continues; it takes a moment for me to pick up the thread of the conversation again.

“I have nothing to complain about,” I assure her. She smiles.

The lamb stew is every bit as wonderful as I remember it being. But I can’t really savour it because all I can think about is how much I want to peel her out of that scrap of fabric and have her for dessert.

She knows. So when our plates are empty she stands, grabbing my hand and pulling me out of my chair. I follow her to our bedroom. I’d follow her anywhere.

She doesn’t head straight for our bed, like I’m expecting. Instead, she leaves me standing just inside the door while she turns on soft music. “Dance with me,” she commands, and my cock, already hard from watching her ass sway in that dress, twitches.

Neither of us are good dancers, but I hold her close and we rock together in a tiny circle. She strokes my face, it’s so tender, so exquisite. I want to freeze this moment, to live in it forever.

But when my hands start to wander she pulls back. And then she laughs. “The look on your face, Peeta,” she giggles. “Oh my God it’s priceless!” I frown, hurt and confused, and she softens. “You don’t think I’m going to do all of this romantic stuff and then say no to the big finish?”

I snicker, but the amusement dies in my throat as she pulls at a tie on her hip and shrugs out of the tiny dress. It puddles at her feet.

Underneath, she’s wearing lingerie, the kind of lingerie that I have wet dreams about. Not that her typical boy shorts aren’t hot, they are. Katniss would be gorgeous in a sack. But seeing her standing like a goddess in a black lace bra and itty-bitty panties…

I know she has a plan, and is trying to direct our evening according to it, but I can’t wait another minute. She squeaks when I hoist her into my arms, and I groan as I realize those little panties have no fabric covering her ass.

I toss her on our bed in the least romantic way possible, crawling over her and kissing her frantically. “You like?” She gasps between kisses, and I thrust my painfully rigid cock against her in response. “Mmm Peeta,” she groans. “I’m supposed to be seducing you, all romantic-” Her words are cut off when I bite her nipple through the lacy fabric, hard, and she keens.

Katniss is small, but strong, and she has the element of surprise in her favour. She flips me, and before I even register what’s happened she’s straddling my chest, nimble fingers slipping my buttons free. I try to reach around her, to undo the clasp holding that sexy little bra in place. But she slaps my hands away. “I bought these for you, Mellark,” she says, cupping her tits, playing with her nipples through the lace. “And you’re not even enjoying them!”

“Fuck, Katniss,” I whine. “I am definitely enjoying them. But I’d like them even more on the floor!” She snickers, but makes no move to remove the offending garment, instead sliding back to work on my jeans.

I’m in no mood to play coy; I lift my hips eagerly, helping her push my jeans and shorts away. But when she reaches down to unstrap her shoes, I stop her. “Leave them on, please?” Her smirk is so self-satisfied; she knows exactly the effect she’s having.

She straddles me again, rocking, the slender bit of silk between her legs already saturated, rubbing against my shaft. “Shit,” I moan. “You’re so wet.”

Her delicate fingers disappear beneath the fabric. I can tell she’s rubbing her clit and my eyes roll back in my head. Her little mewls of pleasure drive me mad. “Oh fuck, Katniss, please,” I beg. “I need to be inside you.”

Her hand wraps around my cock, pumping me even as she slides the bit of fabric aside. I clutch the bed sheets for dear life. When finally, finally, she sinks down onto my aching shaft, I howl. Her velvet walls grip me. She’s so hot, so tight. So perfect.

She rides me slowly, swivelling her hips erotically, grinding her clit against my pelvis with every revolution. The ebony curtain of her hair whispers across my chest when she leans forward.

This time when I reach for the clasp to her bra she allows it. She knows how much I love to watch her tits bounce while she rides me. I can’t keep my hands off those pert swells of firm olive, tipped with flushed nipples that beg for the sting of my fingers. I twist and roll the little buds and she cries out in pleasure.

She leans back a little, her thighs gripping me snugly. My eyes are riveted, unblinking, on where we are connected. Watching myself pump in and out, in and out; it’s so erotic. Her hand snakes down, her fingers start circling her clit, and I can see her stomach muscles clench, feel the tremor that runs through her. “That’s it,” I groan. “I want to watch you come.”

I grip her ass, thrusting as her pace falters. Her beautiful face is twisted in bliss, breasts swaying, fingers circling faster. She moans, the sound is like a lightning rod to my dick and I grit my teeth, trying to stave off my orgasm. I need her to finish first.

She shouts my name when she comes. As many times as she’s done that it will never, ever, get old. Knowing mine is the only cock she has ever come on, it triggers a wave of possessiveness. Every time.

Katniss snuggles against my chest, boneless, and I let her catch her breath for a few moments. But I’m so close, my balls feel like they’re full of lead and I’m trying not to squirm. She shifts, pressing kisses against my hot skin, then looks up at me with those shining eyes. She traces my lip with an arousal-soaked finger, and I suck on it greedily.

She clenches her walls around me, and I arch in agonized bliss. “Let me fuck you,” I beg. She’s barely nodded before I’ve flipped us. I take just a moment to slide those ridiculous panties down her thighs, then I throw her legs over my shoulders, those sexy fuck-me heels by my ears. A fantasy come true. I thrust back into her, hard. “Hang on, baby,” I grunt.

She murmurs encouragement as I fuck her hard, right on the edge of losing control. Her nails dig into my arms, and I bite her ankle. That’s when she starts to chant my name, husky and hoarse, and I come so hard I see stars, pulsing for what feels like forever.

I barely stop myself from collapsing and crushing her. But I mange to pull each of her legs from my shoulders, lay open-mouthed kisses up each calf, behind each knee, graze the insides of her thighs with my stubble. She squirms and laughs, and I join her, flopping onto the pillow beside her and wrapping my arms around her.

We lie in silence for awhile. “I should go blow out the candles,” she groans.

“I’ll get them, Love,” I tell her. It only takes a few minutes to extinguish the candles scattered throughout our home, but I marvel at the planning that she put into this utterly perfect evening. Shopping for the dress and shoes and that incredible lingerie, burned into my memory forever. Leaving work early. Picking up the stew from Sae’s, which doesn’t even have take out. The flowers. The music.

A huge amount of planning for a holiday she doesn’t even believe in.

I crawl into bed beside her, grasp both of her hands in mine. “I’m absolutely not complaining, Katniss,” I murmur as I kiss her fingers. “But what brought all of this on?”

“I wanted you to have a real Valentine’s day,” she mumbles.

“You hate Valentine’s day,” I whisper, freeing my hands to stroke the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass.

“I do,” she sighs. “But I love you, Peeta Mellark. And it’s important to you-” I cut her off.

“You are important to me. Nothing else matters.” She smiles softly.

“I know, you’re always so good to me. And I just minimize the things that you want. That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is expecting you to be someone you’re not,” I remind her. “I love you, all of you, just the way you are. Always.”

“Maybe we can compromise,” she says. “Maybe you can do the sweet, romantic things and I can try to be more appreciative.”

I laugh. “Deal,” I say, rolling to pin her under me again.

“And Peeta,” she says so seriously that I pause. “Maybe we can talk about that ring in your drawer?”

I blanch, fully expecting her to be upset. But she smiles up at me, loving and luminous. “Ask me,” she whispers.

I kiss her, hard. “Marry me?” I breathe against her lips. She nods. “Really?” I can’t help asking. She laughs at me, but it’s affectionate.

I kiss the end of her pert nose and leap off the bed. Her laughter grows as I strut, naked, to the dresser.

When I return, I kneel beside the bed and ask her again, just for the pleasure of hearing her say yes. She gazes at the simple solitaire I slide on her finger; sweaty and disheveled, wearing nothing but shoes and a smile.

And while it’s not the romantic proposal I had planned, it couldn’t be more perfect.

Compromises.


End file.
